Peanut Butter Soup For The Vulcan Soul
by Baroness Emma
Summary: A series of unconnected oneshots, focusing mostly on sweet Nyota/Spock, with a liberal helping of Jim & Spock friendship, and a good sprinkling of the rest of the bridge crew for good measure. Rated K-T
1. Peanut Butter Soup

**Peanut Butter Soup For The Vulcan Soul**

It had been a miserable day. The replicators had been out of order since before breakfast; an energy relay malfunction had put all shipboard lighting on the fritz unless it was set to emergency-level dimness; the Laikeen whip-vines had gotten lose in the conservatory; a few inaccurately soldered wires in the comm unit upgrades had put her departmental work back _weeks_ ; both Jim and Hikaru were grumpy from one of their rare but bitter arguments; the harmless but impressively stinky Belltor mice Bones was studying for Starfleet Medical had somehow escaped into the air vents and their odor could not be swept out until all of them were found; and to top it off, a nasty 'flu was making its way through the non-Human members of the _Enterprise_ crew.

Bones had diagnosed it as the common Klickkan'jura cold, and said it had probably gotten aboard with the Botany department's shipment of decorative Juraleen patchwork moss. Ironically, the moss had been part of an effort to improve morale by brightening up the mess hall and rec-rooms. But instead of making things better, joint pain, headaches, sore throats, and fevers resulted for nearly 30% of the crew. Everyone had been exposed before Bones could synth up a vacc. It wasn't dangerous by any means, but it was annoying, and while the Humans were immune, 100% of the non-Humans aboard were listed among the effected species.

Spock, being half-Human, had of course ignored the quarantine protocols to pull extra shifts in the Science labs, and, of course, managed to ignore his symptoms too, making his resulting illness much worse than it needed to be.

Of course.

Nyota sighed.

Really.

Men.

She sighed again, stirring the pot of soup over her makeshift hot-plate a little more vigorously than was wise given the precarious setup. If they hadn't been flying through space, she was sure it would have been a dreary, muggy, sticky, drippy day into the bargain.

Still. . .

There were a few good points about the situation. She hadn't had a chance to make her mother's recipe for peanut butter soup for. . . for. . . well, _years_.

She'd replaced the chicken broth with vegetable stock, the shredded chicken with _ketek-barkaya_ \- a sort of marinated Vulcan tofu-ish bean-curd (heaven only knew why the kitchens stocked it, but she was very glad they did) - and she had doubled, then tripled the amount of red pepper flakes the recipe called for, but all in all she thought it was a pretty okay effort, especially since it was so spur-of-the-moment.

Picking up a spoon, she tasted it one last time, making absolutely sure the sweet-potatoes were cooked all the way though. She smacked her lips over the small bite - not only did it taste good, it was quite invigoratingly spicy.

She smirked. If she knew Spock at all, he would love it.

Carefully, she ladled out two bowls full, and arranged them neatly on the nearby hovertray. She put her hands on her hips, happily surveying the portable camping stove, extra stasis unit, and makshift rinsing/chopping station she'd managed to get Scotty to rig up for her.

"Oh aye, annythin' far you two lovebirds," he had said, and grinned unashamedly. "I'm wishin' I had such a lassie as you, you know." He had reached out and patted the nearest bulkhead, "Not that my girlie is lacking for talents, mind, but she hassent the least bit of skill with food, more's the pity."

She had agreed, commiserated with him for a moment on the _Enterprise_ 's skittish replicators, and then thanked him warmly. The truth was, very few on Terra had much skill with food any more. Chefs had, of course, and some farmers, but very few others. But her mother had been highly insistent that she and her brothers learned to cook, even taking it to the point of enrolling each of them in the special six-week cooking course their local secondary school offered every summer.

Consequently, Ny felt very accomplished at the sight - and taste! - of her stew, and the little kitchenette that had made it possible.

At last, she turned away, lightly pushing the hovertray before her. The quarters she and Spock shared were blessedly spacious by shipboard standards - perhaps. . . perhaps she could convince Spock to let her keep her little kitchen.

 _Whoa there. Easy. Let's see how he likes the soup first._

She paused in front of the bedroom door.

Huh. Funny.

She had been so confident just moments before. And she _did_ know his tastes, and her abilities. The likelihood that he would find her cooking more than acceptable was very high.

And yet. . .

There was something about the act of cooking, she supposed. Something primal and natural that went beyond food. Cooking - no, cooking _for someone_ \- was powerful, intimate. . .

 _Loving._

That was it. _Loving._

He might be half-Human, but he lived as though he was full-Vulcan - and as such, he rarely told her he loved her. Consequently, she rarely told him either. The bond they shared made many of the verbal endearments unnecessary, but she _was_ still Human, and suddenly, ridiculously, she was nervous that her blatant love-token would not be satisfyingly appreciated.

 _Silly, silly._

She didn't need him to say it. She only needed him to feel it. Whatever he felt, she felt - that was the glory of the bond.

But would he?

If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to hide it.

Every other time she had given him something, or done something for him, it had been _after_ she had felt his wishes - conscious or otherwise - through the bond. This was the first time she would be doing something for him without knowing exactly how he felt about it.

Strange, strange.

How horribly, frighteningly _safe_ the bond made their relationship. There was never any questioning, never any wondering, never any mystery about what the other person might be feeling at any point during the day or night.

It was wonderful, incredible. Ecstatic, beautiful, intoxicating, and at times pure delicious heaven.

But it was also. . . _unhuman._

Had she fallen in love with a Human man she would have been used to not knowing exactly how he felt about things, and she would not have to worry if he couldn't hide his feelings afterward. If she had fallen in love with a Human -

 _Stop it. You fell for Spock. And he's sick right now, and needs the soup you made him._

Oh yeah.

Need.

There was that too.

She took a second to be thankful that this sickness was not the dangerous fever of _pon farr,_ and then finally activated the door.

He was laying flat on his back, but clearly awake, for he was performing Vulcan acupressure on his forehead. The malfunctioning lighting was fortuitous in this case, since Spock had indicated a particularly sharp headache among his most egregious symptoms.

He carefully sat up when he saw her. Then he slowly inhaled, struggling with a nose he had little experience of ever being stuffy.

"That smells. . . enticing." His voice was gravelly, and much deeper than usual. Had he not been so miserably sick, she might have found it rather enticing herself. . .

"My mother's recipe for peanut butter soup. Suitably tweaked and enhanced, of course."

"Of course."

"I hope it's spicy enough for you."

"Given that my sense of taste has been dulled by my illness, I hope so too."

She pushed the tray over to him, deftly removing her own bowl and turning to set it on his nearby desk. "Tell me if it needs salt or anything."

"Nyota?"

A strange tone had entered his voice, clearly detectable to her, even through the warping static of his sore throat. She felt curiously reluctant to turn and face him.

"Nyota?"

The tone was still there, more commanding now. She turned and looked at him.

He was offering her the _ozh'esta_.

Slowly, very slowly, she reached out with her own two fingers, and wrapped them around his.

His skin, always fever-hot, was positively grilling now. But behind the distracting heat there was the usual buzz and hum of his emotions - a complex, brilliant, engaging music that she loved to listen to, and was beginning to understand.

 _I heard your worry,_ K'diwa.

 _Oh._ She blushed hot with her own fever of shame.

 _You must not worry. Nor be ashamed for worrying._

 _But I -_

 _Am Human. I am aware._

His mind-voice was not gravelly or any deeper than normal, but it was _warmer_ somehow. . .

 _I cannot give you Human assurances, adun'a, but I can remind you why we became friends and lovers in the first place. . ._

He looked her straight in the eyes, his own face flushed green and eyes too bright with fever, but still he could communicate everything he needed with a look.

Then he took a bite of soup.

The sensation burst across the bond and _ozh'esta_ at the same time. First, the heat of the pepper, blended with the rich texture of the broth. Then, the bite of sweet potatoes, and the smooth silkiness of the _ketek-barkaya_. As he chewed, he got more of the flavors, but dulled, as he had said. Still, there was only pleasure in his experience, which was only slightly offset by having to swallow it down a scratchy throat. But the texture and heat of it made even this pleasant - only one bite, and some of his discomfort had already been soothed.

 _You see,_ ashalik _?_

 _I see that you like it. And I am gla-_

 _That is not what I mean, adun'a. It is very good, but I did not show you my reaction so clearly because I wanted to reassure you that you are a good cook._

Nyota's breath caught in her throat, _You didn't?_

 _No._

 _Then wh-_

 _Because our souls speak across time and space,_ k'hat'n'dlawa _. We fit. We are suited to each other._ A shimmer of music went though the bond that meant he was smiling at her. _I may be ill, but I have not forgotten my responsibilities as your husband._

 _Your. . ._

 _Yes._

She smirked wryly at him, _Are you sure you're_ _ **up**_ _for that?_

A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, _That is not what I am referring to._

 _No?_

 _No._

 _Then what_ _ **do**_ _you mean?_

 _I mean that I swore to make your dreams come true. And I have not forgotten that vow._

"That's very sweet, Spock," she said out loud, finally taking up her own bowl and digging in. "But I'm still not quite sure what you mean." She mumbled around a large chunk of sweet potato, "What dreams are you talking about?"

He took another precise bite, chewing and swallowing before he answered her. "You made this meal to care for me, correct?"

"Yeah, of course."

"But, you also found more fulfillment in the act than simply that, did you not?"

She paused a little, "Well. . . yes. I mean, cooking - and especially cooking _well_ \- isn't something everyone can do, and yeah, I liked doing it."

"For its own sake?"

"I guess so. For its own sake, yeah."

He gave his almost invisible smile again. "Then, there is no need to convince me to retain your cooking apparatus. It makes you happy. Therefore, you do not have to ask for my permission." His voice turned uncomfortably raspy, but he was still in utter earnest, "Even if I disapproved, which I do not, a Vulcan husband does not have the right to impede his wife in such a manner." He turned his head, and coughed, in obvious pain from speaking aloud.

"It's okay Spock, don't talk any more. And. . . thank you." So many Human emotions were swirling about in her head, she needed him to stop speaking herself. She felt so much more than thankfulness. . . and so much more than she could say to him.

But, of course, he knew that too. . .

He nodded his head in response, and returned to eating his soup.


	2. Opposite Day

WARNING: Rated T for Gaila and themes. Woo. (^_^)

* * *

 **Opposite Day**

"Have a terrible time!" Ny called cheerily after Gaila as the green-skinned girl trotted off with her latest bevy of infatuated admirers.

"You bet!" returned her friend's voice, slightly muffled against some guy's neck, "Oh, uh, I mean, I won't!" She giggled, and the three men she was kissing laughed too.

Ny shook her head bemusedly. It might be Opposite Day, but Gai was Gai, forever and ever, world without end, and she could never - would never - pass up a wild make-out session with wide-eyed freshmen.

The semester was only a week and a half old, too, so there WERE some wide-eyed freshmen that Gaila hadn't made out with yet. . .

Ny, not at all eager to watch the retreating orgy-in-the-making, quickly turned down the hallway that led to Commander Spock's office.

Today had been fun, all things considered. She had wished folks a dreary day, walked through the halls backwards, worn an admiral's insignia, and had ordered a huge plate of gooey, bacon-y, extra-cheesy mac-and-cheese and nothing else for lunch. Not even a carrot stick. She'd probably pay for all the salt and carbs later, but man had it been good.

She and her friends had watched, and laughed at, the musical department's attempt to play the Terran Anthem backwards; they'd caught the tail end of a joke Parrises Squares tournament where everyone was ramming each other with pillows; they had enjoyed the hamburgers the mess hall served for breakfast and were looking forward to the planned cereal and assorted fruits for dinner; and it had been endlessly amusing to go to classes and see their professors greet students backwards, answer some questions deliberately and absurdly wrong, come to class dressed like cadets, show up with brilliantly dyed hair or skin, and one had even _sung_ all day instead of speaking.

Yes, that had all been fun. And now, time for two hours uninterrupted time with Dommander Strict, as Gaila called him, who probably thought the whole thing hopelessly illogical, and anyone willingly participating therein disgustingly out of line.

She sighed a little, placing her hand on his office's door-scanner. The Commander was a brilliant person, and agreeable enough in his own way, but his radically dry sense of humor made him seem distinctly cold, at times.

The door to his office did not open to her handprint, even though he had programmed it to do so ever since the first day she started working with him.

Odd.

"Door open, Override - UhuraA764."

The door was mute to her command, but Spock's voice came over the intercomm -

"Access granted for Cadet Uhura."

His voice, neutral as always, did not hint that anything strange was going on.

But, as she walked in, she _knew_ there was. Had to be.

He was sitting in the dark, his face illuminated only by the pale bluish glow of his computer screen.

He had never before failed to greet her either, but there he was, focused on his work, ignoring her presence completely.

Ny's brow furrowed. . . this was _really_ odd.

Shrugging a little, she tried to shake off how strange this all felt, and walked to her desk, saying as normally as possible -

"Good afternoon, Sir. Would you like me to grade the third section's Unit 1 test today?"

He looked up at her, briefly. "No, thank you, Cadet."

"Would you like me to post the updated simulation schedule?"

"No, thank you."

"Next week's extra credit requirements?"

He shook his head solemnly.

"How about going over some recordings for my thesis?"

"No."

She sighed, frustrated now. "So, what WOULD you like me to do?"

He did not answer, but slowly stood, and, touching some hidden switch, brought up the lights. As he came around his desk, she began to notice the oddest thing of all. . . his clothes did not seem to fit. Normally, he moved with perfectly tailored grace, but now, his motions were hampered by several inelegantly bunching sections of cloth, and at least three more oddly baggy portions.

 _What. . . .?_

Her gaze drifted down to his boots, as he stood silently before her. The standard Starfleet-issue shoes were perfectly polished, as usual, but they looked wrong, somehow. . . . bent. . . .

"You!" she gasped, sudden clarity then rendering her wordless for a full two seconds, "You're wearing your shoes on the opposite feet! And your clothes backwards!"

He nodded, an expression suspiciously like a smile hovering around his mouth.

"You didn't teach your morning classes like that, did you?"

He leaned back against his desk with magnificent nonchalance.

"No, Cadet," he said, in a voice that would be terse if it were not for the tone of pure _amusement_ back behind it, "Rest assured, my reputation as the "most uptight" professor at the Academy is well secure."

"And the unresponsive door, and sitting in the dark, and not saying hi?"

"Were also my interpretation of 'Opposite Day', yes."

Ny tried to stay annoyed, but she couldn't help it. She sat heavily on her own desk, and gave in to a long peal of laughter.

He stood there calmly through it, the same look of almost-smiling touching the edges of his posture.

"You!" she exclaimed, a long minute later, "You're the very last person I'd have expected to participate in _Opposite Day_ of all things!"

His head tilted in his approximation of a shrug. "I must admit, if I had not been more than reasonably certain it would amuse you, I would have done nothing of the kind."

She looked him up and down, guffawing again, "Well, you did that, I must say."

"I do not believe I have ever told you how pleasant I find your laughter."

This confession came so suddenly, and with his normal unemotive tone, that it took an unaccountably long series of seconds for Nyota to process the words.

 _Did he just. . .?_

"Si-r?" she finally managed to stutter out, "Uh-m."

He remained leaning against his desk, cool and collected, completely unfazed by his ridiculous getup.

"It is Opposite Day, Nyota. You may call me by my given name."

 _Oh, yes he did. . ._

She gaped a little, and blinked a few times. "Si-Spock. . . what. . . what _do_ you want me to do here today?"

At last, a vestige of awkwardness peeked through his stoic demeanor. His feet shuffled a tiny bit as he took half a step towards her, then stopped. His mouth opened, but for a moment he looked like he did not know what to say.

"Nyota," he said, then stopped. His eyes slid sideways a moment, as though he were amused or annoyed with himself.

Then he looked back at her, and dropped his voice to a mere whisper.

"Why is it, Nyota, that you are such an inspiration to me, and yet when you are near, I can hardly find words to speak?"

Her mouth, still open from her previous shock, stayed open for another handful of seconds before she finally remembered to close it.

"I. . . did not know I was doing either, Si-Spock."

He nodded, a very Human gesture. "You have. I am. You do."

For Spock, it was practically babbling.

Nyota, suddenly feeling a rush of power the like of which she had never known before, took pity on the poor boy.

 _If I can make him_ _ **babble**_ _. . ._

"Spock," she said, for the first time with boldness, "Would you like to go out to dinner with me tonight?"

His eyes snapped to hers, then intently searched her face. "You. . . are in earnest?"

She grinned, a warm feeling seeping through her heart.

 _Why have I never noticed just how_ _ **cute**_ _. . .?_

"Yes."

"I accept."

"Good." She jumped up from her desk. It was Opposite Day, and she had the first date of the decade to prepare for. She could skip out this one time. "Pick me up at 19:30, don't be late, and uh - " she stepped closer to him than she ever had before, "Wear your clothes the right way around, okay?"

Very slowly, very gently, he traced the back of a fingernail down the side of her face. Then, he leaned even closer and whispered, "Yes ma'am."

All the boldness rushed out of her with a single pulse of adrenaline, leaving behind a totally different sort of warmth.

 _Wow!_

Suddenly breathless, she spun and fled from his office before either of them did something hideously improper.

For his office.

Hideously improper _for his office._

All at once, the prospect of the rest of the term stretched out before her, a panoply of options, a veritable zoo of possibilities. He was Vulcan, or mostly, so. . .

 _So many questions. . ._

And tonight, she was certain, she would begin to get the answers.

 _Well. Opposite Day indeed._

She smiled. Gaila would be _so_ jealous.


	3. Let Sleeping Vulcans Lie

WARNING: Rated T for non-graphic married nookie.

* * *

 **Let Sleeping Vulcans Lie**

"Quantum banana typhoid wingnuts."

Nyota heard her husband's voice quite clearly, but he, uncharacteristically, made no sense.

"Herald pontoon half turn manatee."

She rose from her desk, and peeked tentatively into their bedroom.

"Twelve, onion bark two deep kale."

It was a rare afternoon off for the both of them, and, strangely for him, Spock had felt in need of a nap, but she did not.

She would have joined him anyway, and he had indeed asked her to, but there was a brand new transmission from Gaila she wanted to listen to.

The _Sundiata_ 's scouting mission had found a space-capable humanoid race with a _very_ interesting set of languages. Gaila, as mission commander, had been sending back a wide range of recordings, both before and after she had initiated First Contact, and Uhura had been studying them constantly, trying to discover this new race's idiomatic identity - a crucial step in being able to properly program the UT for their language set.

Plus, the whole experience was fascinating, and practically the reason she had joined Starfleet, so she was greatly enjoying it.

She had explained all this to Spock, but instead of his usual logical understanding, he had half-sneered, and practically _growled_ that she spent far too much time working - that they both did - and it was high time they took some leave.

She had laughed him off, saying they could very easily take some time off at their next port of call in two months, but back behind her casual words, there was a sudden spike of. . . . . . . . . something. It was a vague feeling, not dark enough for fear, nor bitter enough for worry, nor clear enough for regret.

Through the bond, she felt Spock's puzzlement at her sudden emotion, so it wasn't a feeling coming from him either.

They both shrugged it off, and each turned to their chosen activity.

Not half an hour later though, hearing such random nonsense coming from her husband's mouth, the feeling returned, redoubled in its odd, almost alien intensity.

"Tuba door glitter parts per billion."

He was sleeping perfectly normally, not flushed or restless, settled on his back, motionless under the covers save for his breathing.

And those strangely random words, of course.

"Backgammon, Nyota please."

She started at her name.

"No Nyota, no more ginger ale."

Her vague feeling turned to an intense curiosity.

 _What could he possibly be dreaming? . . ._

"Ashal-veh, you cannot knit the eel."

She took a hesitant step towards the bed, wondering if it would be alright if she. . .

 _They are his private thoughts. . ._

And yet, they were married, bonded and mated, and it was considered perfectly normal for Vulcan couples to share thoughts. . . and dreams too.

And it wasn't like they hadn't co-dreamed before. . .

And he _had_ invited her to take this nap with him. . .

"Fossil fuels are not used any more, my beloved."

Curiosity got the better of her, and she darted to his side, knelt on the edge of the bed, and slowly, still tentatively - for three years was still too short a time to make initiating a meld feel normal to her - she put her fingers to his face, reached out through the bond, and quietly mouthed the words -

"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your th-

 _"There is no palfrey in the wind."_

 _"Make sure the jacaranda feeds the gerbil."_

 _"Wary juice keel venture duck."_

 _She was in a purple whirlwind of random words, watching as some coalesced into nonsense phrases, and others broke apart into gleaming shards of memories. She could hear the vast store of words he had to draw upon - could hear them all at once in the great silent whisper that lay beyond the thick cloud of his dream. It was his mind, and it was feeding the storm, but not directing it, as she assumed he usually did._

 _"Martial broom, fish, jack, and woad."_

 _It was like standing inside a shroud of smoke, unknowing where the fire came from._

 _"Fire. Nyota fire. Fire. Set on stun. Fire. Shoot to kill. Run!"_

 _Out of the murmuring violet fog there came a gout of blue flame, huge, yet remote, as though she stood at the foot of some ancient volcano, newly awakened._

 _"Nyota, my wife. . . . "_

 _Spock's voice came from far away, echoing across the timeless landscape of his mind, but he was also there, of a sudden, standing beside her._

 _He was clothed in a swathe of blue flames, his eyes flashing with argent lightening._

 _"Nyota, my love," he said with a voice like Death, and like Life, and all the deities in between, "You must leave."_

 _She stared at him, so overwhelmed with words she could not at that moment speak._

 _"I. . . . . . cannot," she said finally, and it felt like doom._

 _"So be it," he said, with the sound of distant thunder._

 _Like living things, great lances of fire reached out and enveloped her, taking hold of her soul and drawing her to him. When their bodies touched, his arms enclosed her, and his mouth descended to hers._

 _It was like falling into the sun, with all the poignancy of moonlight, and all the eternity of the stars._

 _It was more than a kiss. So much more that all the words were silenced, and the purple mist melted into crystal brilliance. . .  
_

After an untold string of forevers, Nyota awoke, her body still singing from the completely unexpected pleasure. She had no idea where her clothes had gone, nor did she care.

 _Wow! That was some dream!_

Initiating a meld with him had never led to _that_ before.

Well. . . nothing that intense, anyway. . .

Spock was still deeply asleep, laying half on her, and half on a pile of what she assumed used to be bedclothes. The echo of his mind was now quiet, free from chaotic words and primal fire. But his skin was burning hot now, far hotter than even his normal fever-warmth. He never slept this deep, nor got this hot - because he simply was never sick. Her mind was still too full of endorphins to worry about him, but a small portion of that vague feeling finally resolved itself. It was _urgency_. And when she smoothed a hand down his back and felt actual _sweat_ coming off him, she finally understood.

 _The Time . . . . . ._

He had, naturally, told her about this before they had bonded, had expressed his doubts and fears, and his hopes and desires.

Of course, now that she saw it, she realized there was no way to be _fully_ prepared.

But they _had_ taken some precautions, and McCoy figured largely in them.

He stirred the minute a thought involving another man crossed her mind.

 _Shhhhhhh, it's alright_ , she projected at him, _I'm here for you, Spock, love, only you. . ._

He settled almost immediately, and fell back into oblivion.

She sighed, the warm luxury of the afterglow finally clearing a bit. In a minute she'd call Christine, and ask her for the food, water, and other supplies they'd arranged to get from Bones. She'd also ask her to inform Len that she and Spock would be taking a week's leave a bit earlier than intended, and would he please inform the Captain and their departments?

Gaila's scouting mission was due back in three days, and Nyota needed her people on that UT re-program as soon as possible. . .

 _Oh, shoot_ , she thought, the downsides of spending an unplanned week in a love nest finally presenting themselves.

Plus, they were four days from a stellar nursery, and a dark matter nebula was on the agenda too.

She was two steps away from being annoyed, but she looked over at Spock, his sleeping face far more expressive than it ever was when awake, and she willingly let go of all next week's schedule. He was more important than even the best laid plans.

She pet his shoulder again. For her, he was more important right now than anyone else on the ship.

Including herself.

She wiggled out from under him, quickly took a long drink of water, and snagged a clean sheet. Then she crawled back over to him, covered them both up with the cool, clean cotton, and snuggled into his hot skin.

For the first time, she noticed he smelled different too.

 _So that's what those "mating pheromones" smell like. Whelp. This is gonna be a week of discoveries, better get used to it and hunker down._

She half-smirked, a whole raft of previously inscrutable Vulcan traditions suddenly making a lot of sense.

And then, a sad memory, but also a good one, and now revealed to be much more useful than she had known then - the one time she had met his mother.

"Let sleeping Vulcans lie, my dear," Amanda had said, wryly, "You never know what they're keeping hidden in those hearts of theirs."

Sarek had given his wife a flat, stern look at this, and later, Spock had explained that in Vulkansu "keeping hidden" had a particularly. . . intimate, idiomatic meaning.

"Hidden indeed," she whispered lovingly against his arm, and settling herself comfortably against him, she slept while she could.


	4. I Don't Have A Favorite Captain

**In honor of ST: Discovery** \- Welcome to the family, new Trek show! Whether you're good, bad, loved or hated, you're one of us now!

* * *

 **A/N -** Inspired by (ahem*blatantlyrippedofffrom*ahem) the Hank Green song "I Don't Have A Favorite Pony". Listen to it here - you tube / watch?v=x8tVoriImK8

Don't forget to be awesome!

* * *

 **I don't have a favorite Captain**

There's a question that Trekkies ask -

And I don't really get it.

Every time I tell them I don't really know,

I always come to regret it.

'Cause hundreds of thousands of people,

Never cared about anything more.

They've spent the last five decades,

Making magazines, fanfic and cosplays,

And I think all that excitement is great.

But when they ask,

I have no choice.

I still have to say. . .

That I don't have a favorite Captain -

'Cause, have you seen these shows?

No, I don't have a favorite Captain -

Yeah, I've seen every episode,

And I don't have a favorite Captain -

What really can I do?

I don't have a favorite Captain -

'Cause I.

Just.

Can't.

Choose.

Well Janeway is a strong woman,

Which means a lot to me,

And Sisko is the badass,

That I really love to see.

And Archer is the kind of guy,

To whom we can all relate,

But New Kirk is an action star,

That I think is really great.

And Picard brought the series back,

Plus he's nerdy and philosophical,

Why should I even mention Kirk?

'Cause you can't top an original.

Oh, I don't have a favorite Captain -

'Cause, have you seen these shows?

No, I don't have a favorite Captain -

Yeah, I've seen every episode,

And I don't have a favorite Captain -

What really can I do?

I don't have a favorite Captain -

'Cause I.

Just.

Can't.

Choose.

Is it at all possible,

We shouldn't focus on the past,

And instead spend all this time,

Making a future that will last?

But it's equally probable,

That instead of changing how we see,

We'll spend the next thirty years,

Arguing over continuity!

Problems in the real world,

Get so easily out of hand.

It's all so much easier in Roddenberryland!

But I don't have a favorite Captain -

I don't have one even though,

I've spent years trying to pick,

And re-watching my favorite episodes,

Yeah, I don't have a favorite Captain -

And I'm not going to lie,

I don't have a favorite Captain -

'Cause I . . .

I,

Like,

Pike.

(~_-)


	5. Tradition

**A/N** \- Consolidating some older stories here, for convenience. All previous reviews have been added at the end.

* * *

"Because of our traditions, every man knows who he is. . . "

– Tevye, from _Fiddler on the Roof_

* * *

 **Tradition**

Nyota had always loved olives. He had known this for years, ever since he had observed her at the Academy, explaining the difference between the Tuscan and Kalamata varieties to the off-world cadets. She was something of a connoisseur, and this he respected. It was a harmless interest, though quite interesting, and nutritious, if his understanding of Human biology was at all proficient.

During their courtship, he had enjoyed being introduced to things like muffaletta (it was quite acceptable when spread on Vulcan flatbread) and tapenade (which Nyota would often mix in their salad each evening). He also learned to appreciate dry cured Greek olives, and American Style green olives stuffed with bleu cheese. His preferred type were the tree-ripened, brine-cured, un-pitted variety, but he never imposed his preference upon her chosen hobby.

It was not until their long posting upon the _Enterprise_ that he truly came to acknowledge the depth of her interest, however, since being aboard ship amplified the difference inherent between _real_ foods and _necessary_ nutrition. In fact, he found he had never even appreciated a genuine bowl of _plomeek_ soup until two years into the five year assignment, when the stores of fresh provisions had unexpectedly given out, and he had attempted to program the replicators to his satisfaction. It had been unexpectedly difficult and his subsequent battle with the main computer had been singularly irritating.

Thus, he was uncharacteristically pleased when Nyota informed him that she had obtained several cans of black olives (one of her "simple favorites", as she called them) and had arranged an after dinner snack for them that evening.

He entered their quarters at 1945, (having had first to deal with a meeting with Jim, and an update from McCoy, concerning their last mission stop, and the epidemic they had incidentally prevented) and found that, once again, though there were no significant differences in the content or layout of their quarters, whenever he entered the space he shared with his _adun'a_ , he experienced a distinct sensation of peace.

She emerged from the sleeping area to the living area, carrying a tray with a variety of cheeses, crackers, two glasses of wine, and, center stage, as it were, was large bowl of velvety black olives.

Without a word, she proceeded to serve out the snacks she had provided, and, still in silence, she led him to sit at their small dining table.

As he dutifully sipped and nibbled, she would sigh and grin – at times showing her enjoyment so plainly he could not refrain from commenting.

"Even after observing you intimately for over a year, k'diwa," he said blandly, "I find it incomprehensible that you deem such an experience as fresh food to be worthy of such facial expressions."

He observed the characteristic glint that passed through her features – she knew what he meant, and every subtext he was hinting at.

She smiled a sleek half smile and asked, "Well, husband, instead of perturbing you with my illogical human response to a treat, would you like me to demonstrate the _traditional_ method of eating black olives?"

A slight lifting of eyebrows was all the answer she needed.

In response, she delicately fitted an olive to each of her fingertips and proceeded to eat them. . . slowly. . . and one by one. . . not breaking eye contact with him the whole time.

He was not entirely certain what his response to this display was _supposed_ to be, but he was in no doubt as to what his response _was_.

 _Human hands are_ _ **not**_ _the same as Vulcan hands. . . I know this. . . and yet. . ._

When she had done, she reached over and took him by the wrist, and eying his own hands she again broke the silence – "It is your turn _adun_. . ."

He was not at all discomfited by the ensuing experience – after all, everything about it was _traditional_. . . . . . . . . .

* * *

 **=/\=**

* * *

 **Guest** \- Jun 3, 2017 - Eating olives off of Spock's hands -sexy!

 **Lightz1** \- Aug 31, 2016 - Loved this short story! :-)

 **CRF** \- Apr 4, 2014 - This was cute- I really enjoyed it:)

 **XMarisolX** \- Feb 15, 2014 - Naughty. Thanks for sharing.

 **The M.H. R** \- Nov 8, 2013 - I really don't ship Spock and Uhura, but this was so cute you may have just begun to convert me. Kudos

 **Obsessive66** \- Jul 24, 2013 - Cute and funny.

 **Trekky001** \- Oct 8, 2010 - Hehe love the ending, and now I'm hungry! :D

 **Linstock** \- Oct 5, 2010 - A sweet ficlet. Nyota does like to nudge him out of his comfort zone it seems.

 **Spockchick** \- Oct 4, 2010 - How did I miss this? As a total foodie - I salute you. Wonderfully done.

 **SherlockianGirl** \- Oct 3, 2010 - D'awwwwwwwwwwwwww, they are ADORABLE! Uhura seems just the type of woman who would understand him and...just...oh, this is wonderfully done, m'dear. *can't stop 'awwwwww'ing* :D

 **Cairistona** \- Oct 2, 2010 - Hehehehe! :) Excellent fluff! Love it! :)

"I find it incomprehensible that you deem such an experience as fresh food to be worthy of such facial expressions." Haha! And the rest is just great..! :)

Your parenthetical remark was just perfect, too. "(... concerning their last mission stop, and the epidemic they had incidentally prevented)" They're alllllways doing that! :D

 **VickyFromGreece** \- Sep 22, 2010 - Interesting story - I never pictured Spock eating olives like that... until now!

 **reflekshun** \- Sep 22, 2010 - This install was...interesting. It was also humorous. Just take a moment and picture Spock eating olives. Thank you for that mental image. It made my day.

 **Clio1792** \- Sep 22, 2010 - Well, olives & cheese are definitely more nutritious than champagne and strawberries...but evidently, the effect is similar...

Glad you got these two together...although there's enough of a journey between the eye contact in the club over that spring break you described in your earlier piece and this cosy domestic scene so that at some point, you may want to fill in some of your own "plot holes," Baroness...

Meanwhile, this was very nice,

Clio

 **QTFics** S- ep 22, 2010 - Very cute!

 **bookdragon01** \- Sep 22, 2010 - Love it. We eat olives the same way.

 **Babita** \- Sep 22, 2010 - That is a very, very good tradition. Very sweet!


	6. Smiles

**Smiles**

* * *

 **Sarek**

Those who know him, know.

He has never smiled, truly, in his life.

Not one single, natural, empathic response has he ever expressed by the delicate tightening of facial muscles to bend the lips into a curve. Never once has an emotion slipped past his control so that his teeth have been shown in the subtle framing of his mouth, nor have his nostrils flared or cheeks contracted to make what humans would simply call a "happy" face.

Never.

Not once.

But everyone, even those who do not know him, have _seen_ him smile. Often. In company. At work. He wears a smile like most men wear a tunic. It is flat, formal, well crafted, and apparently normal, but nothing about it even goes as deep as the skin. He puts it on as a uniform, but there is no light in it, and it does not reach his eyes.

A delicate contracting of facial muscles that allow him to project a scene he must maintain, a calculated expression of cultural acceptance, an Ambassador's tool.

That is all these smiles are.

But those who know him see past the sculpted perfection of his control, and know that there is more truth in these smiles than anyone can fully see. The emotions that _could_ produce a genuine smile are not absent - they never have been. And when he gives his false show of happiness, something about his posture does bespeak of truth. He _is_ happy. . . but this is not how he would wish to show it.

He _cannot_ smile, truly, he cannot. He is Vulcan, and they _do not_. It is not their way.

But, it is expression, and he needs it.

He smiles with his mouth.

And it is good.

* * *

 **Spock**

People say he cannot smile.

He would agree with them.

He cannot and does not use his lips in that fashion. A twitch is all. A quirk. These are not smiles. Everyone agrees that they are mere remnants of some forced expression, or shreds of humanity long forgotten.

But they will never know how many long hours of meditation and how many years of rigorous practice have allowed him to suppress the instinct he inherited from his mother - the instinct to express emotion in exactly that way. They will never know the duality of his desires on the matter - how much he wishes he _could_ , and very much he knows he _shouldn't_. They will never see that love and despair have merged in him so completely that now he does not even know if a smile would break him or make him immortal. It would have to be one or the other, and he does not know which. They will never see that ambiguity.

They will _never_ know.

He has promised himself this.

He does not know or understand, that, in fact, it does not matter.

He smiles anyway.

Not so that most people can see it, of course, but then, so few are looking. Most are intimidated by him or so completely alienated by him that they never have the heart to see what is so plainly there - _shining_ from him, at times. If ever once someone _would_ catch on when he gives forth his unadulterated joy, it is certain that worlds would begin to sing.

It is unconscious, or it would not be so powerful.

But, it is expression, and he needs it.

He smiles with his eyes.

And it is good.

* * *

 **McCoy**

He doesn't want to smile.

Oh, he can, of course. . . but usually when he tries to make his face form what most people would make into a happy thing, all he shows is a snarl. Red human skin stretched over white human teeth. Sometimes twisted, sometimes hostile. A bitter, deformed, sarcastic thing - more suited to an animal of prey than a warm, soft-hearted man.

Sometimes he tries to use his voice instead, and there he often succeeds. A tone of voice _can_ be gentle or joyous, even when the facial expression to go with it has become weathered and worn by countless internal contradictions.

He has everything he needs to be happy. . . but he isn't.

And it is not because he isn't capable of it, either.

He's just happy being miserable.

And they all will just have to live with that.

Yet. . . he never tries to impose - he never forces his bittersweet way on anyone.

But, he has only little concept of how much he really does enforce his own ideals on everyone around him. How the very nature of his job means that the most intimate facts about everything and everyone are constantly on his mind, and he does not see how his respect of that intimacy is projected all around him.

Others see only a man. A doctor. A gruff person, skilled, but unapproachable.

But when he touches them. . .

He has no understanding of what a touch can mean to someone. He is no touch-telepath, he has no extraordinary nervous array, he doesn't understand that the push and pull, the tug and ripple of skin and sinew and muscle and veins can communicate something to the patient that he never meant to say.

It is only in this manner that he can express what he is. . . not merely what he isn't.

But, it is expression, and he needs it.

He smiles with his hands.

And it is good.

* * *

 **Uhura**

She smiles all the time, in infinite variety.

It is only another language.

She is perhaps unaware of it, but she speaks this unspoken language as exceptionally well as she speaks any other. With vibrancy, with forcefulness, with utter embracing of the form and function of the medium. She could tell you with a smile that you are a sweet, understanding, worthy person, and she wants to be your friend, and yet with the smallest change she could say, just as clearly, that you are a stupid, selfish, uninteresting mongrel, and buzz off please. She could, and has, said all of these things using just a smile.

Oh, she uses the words anyway.

But she doesn't need to.

What she does not truly understand is the beauty this bestows on her. The truly wonderful, mortal beauty of _communication_.

When she speaks, you know where you are with her. It is her greatest asset.

It is not honesty, it is more than that. It is understanding.

She is not aware how rare this makes her.

She speaks with her smiles because that is who she is. Her self expression is a celebration of her humanity - not because she is proud, or arrogant, or selfish, or even very aggressive, but because she is _human_ , and that is all she wants to be. The one thing she knows is that acceptance of self often makes it easier to accept others, to understand them.

And that is the first step in communication.

She knows that to be open is to be bigger than everyone else, to be transparent is to be safer than everyone else, to be silent is to be more giving than anyone else.

Her smiles are silent.

But, they are expression, and she needs them.

She smiles with her heart.

And it is good.

* * *

 **Kirk**

He thinks more about it than he should.

Smiling, that is. . .

What could he show, what would he reveal, how could he influence the situation with a smile or two? There is a lot of use to be had from a smile, he knows, and not just for picking up girls or winning at poker.

People react to smiles. Sometimes their faces light up, sometimes they blush. Sometimes their eyes soften, and sometimes he sees walls go up. He is intrigued by the fact that if you let someone else _think_ they are getting a read on you, most of the time _you_ can get a read on _them_.

He practices in the mirror.

He isn't sure when controlling others became preferable to controlling himself, but he does know that the irony of the situation is that he must _still_ control himself. An uncontrolled person can't control anyone.

But he'll keep it together.

He has no choice.

He was _born_ for this. . .

He's not sure that he has ever seen a genuine smile. Something totally and truly spontaneous. But he does know that in his quest for spontaneity, he has somehow lost some ability for happiness. It doesn't hurt. It just _isn't_.

Maybe that's _all_ he is. Spontaneous.

Funny how everything runs amok when everything is controlled. His genius mind ponders the irony of it all. For a second or two.

Next drink, next girl, next poker game, next mission.

He smiles at the thought.

It is expression, and he needs it.

He smiles with his mind.

And it is good.

* * *

 **Spock Prime**

Now, he is the emotional one.

The one who can live with himself if he makes an error, the one who can fray around the edges of his control and still keep the dignity of his years and of his race.

He has never been this person before.

Of all the things he expected, it was manifestly not this trip to Never-never Land, where he would meet the Lost Boy in him that never grew up. He never made any provision for having two lives to live, or having two futures to think about.

And two pasts.

The old adage "You can't change the past," is a meaningless bunch of words now.

Oddly, _he_ is even more a singularity than he was before.

Long ago he faced his feelings. Long ago he quantified his fears and longings and his sorrows and his joys. He forgot about them so completely that he actually became comfortable with them.

Not that he would admit this to anyone.

Except maybe. . . himself. . .

It was more unexpected than having a clone. A clone, at least, is a physically different being that comes into _your_ time.

Here they were, the same being, and _he_ was the one who had changed his time.

He shook off the oddity and retreated into the world of his own mind, as that was the only familiar place anymore. And he wondered. . .

Would this new universe be ready for him? Them?

An emotional Vulcan.

 _Two_ of them.

He vowed to himself to speak as little as possible to anyone, not wishing to betray anything about himself or about the young other self that was not him.

But there would be more to this silence than that, of course. . .

. . . Because now he knew the power of his voice.

If he could convince _himself_ to act in an illogical manner, then what might he be capable of in this universe? The smallest phrase, the simplest words, he knew now that they were filled with what he had always denied, and always fought against.

It was. . . oh. . . so much more than dignity.

But. . . it was expression. . . and he needed it.

Oh, _how_ he needed it.

He smiled with his soul.

And it was good.

* * *

 **Amanda Grayson**

Somewhere, beyond all expression, she sits, smiling.

Because it is good.

It is all good.

And all creation is there, smiling back at her.

* * *

 **=/\=**

* * *

 **Guest** \- Jul 15, 2016 -Blown away. I love how you portray Kirk and McCoy I understand them more! Beautiful!

 **Werde Spinner** \- Aug 24, 2013 - *wailing and flailing at how perfect this fic is* There are honest-to-goodness TEARS in my eyes, do you know that? I don't know where it started - probably somewhere with McCoy - but it's happened and I'd love to blame you, but I CAN'T, because this is such a wonderful and beautiful fic.

 **Satin Ragdoll** \- Dec 13, 2012 - :) ;) :} :] :D XD

 **Pimpernel Princess** \- Aug 20, 2010 -Lovely parallels between the characters. Especially loved Kirk's. Your writing is as wonderful as ever, my friend! I can't believed I missed this...

 **SherlockianGirl** \- Jul 31, 2010 - Do you realize how utterly POETIC this piece sounds? Lovely! McCoy...OMG, awwww :3

 **Shatterwing** \- Jun 29, 2010 - I like this. It's enigmatic and thoughtful, but at the same time it makes perfect sense.

 **Sparky Dorian** \- Jun 22, 2010 - Wow. That was so amazing, each character was perfect. I loved it. Uhura and McCoy were especially awesome.

 **Cairistona** \- Jun 7, 2010 - Dude! :D I'm grinning, but I really almost don't know what to say…!

Fabulous! Your brilliancy at catching the innermost person shines AGAIN!

I liked how you wrote how each person smiled with a different part of their being. It was really cool.

Loved it!

She smiles with her keyboard. :D

And it is good.

 **Harm Marie** \- Jun 4, 2010 - I liked this.

 **Clio1792** \- Jun 3, 2010 - This is an extremely interesting companion piece to your exploration of character childhoods. I especially liked Kirk's point about how he "decodes" people from their reaction to smiles. Thanks for this insightful and thought-provoking work!

 **reflekshun** \- Jun 2, 2010 - Baroness Emma, this was a wonderful install, and I really enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing.

 **The Wolf's Shadow** \- Jun 2, 2010 - I love this; it's so them. Amanda's part was sweet and I loved Spock Prime. :)


End file.
